


The Door, The Table, The Bed

by Rave



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, wat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rave/pseuds/Rave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Cesc is a stray kitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Door, The Table, The Bed

**Author's Note:**

> This story was a valentine for tyrannicides@lj, who once of her own accord said the following sentence: “I'm not even into cats that way, I just want Cesc sleeping in a cardboard box.” On your own head be it, boo. U r my sunshine.

It was a Wednesday. Iker had his raincoat over his head, slopping through puddles and swearing to himself, and he didn’t see the box on the sidewalk outside his building until he almost tripped over it. On one of the flaps, _FREE KITTENS_ was scrawled in soggy block letters.

He couldn’t explain, later, why he’d lifted the flap up. It was just so gross out, and the thought of a kitten in there, all bedraggled, was too sad to deal with. So he’d glanced inside. Just to be sure it was empty.

It wasn’t. There was a kid in it.

He had dark hair and big eyes; he was wedged into a corner. When Iker’s shadow fell across him he shrank into a tense little hunch, his sneakers squeaking on the wet cardboard.

“Hey,” Iker called. “Are you okay?”

The kid didn’t say anything. He looked about sixteen. His face was sharp and watchful, and when Iker reached out a placating hand to him he pulled even further into himself and -- no other word for it -- hissed. 

“Whoa,” Iker said, taken aback. “Shh. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.” 

The kid’s eyes darted frantically past Iker, looking for an escape. He tried to get up, but his legs must have gone numb; they collapsed sideways under him and he sat down hard. His ears seemed to flatten against his head. He bared his teeth again. 

“Okay, okay,” Iker said again. “Do you, like, live in here? Come on, that’s nuts.” He reached out a hand, carefully; the kid swatted at it, cowering into the corner of the box. Something was definitely wrong with his leg. 

“Look,” Iker said. He had to raise his voice over the racket of the rain. “I’m not a serial killer or something. Just -- come with me, okay? Come get something to eat or just -- you can’t just stay in the goddamn box. I live right upstairs.” 

The kid’s face was uncomprehending, blank with panic. Iker pointed. “You know, upstairs?” Maybe he didn’t speak English. He reached out again and this time managed to get a hand around the kid’s back; he didn’t try to shy away. It was like he’d given up. His whole body was lax, unresisting. Iker tugged him upright, pulled one of the kid’s skinny arms around his shoulder. The kid tried to hold himself up, but his legs were still fucked, and he would have collapsed if Iker hadn’t caught him around the waist. 

“Okay,” Iker said, mostly to himself now. “Okay, fine.” 

He hoisted the kid up onto his shoulder, holding him the way he’d hold a sleeping toddler. He seemed to weigh nothing at all. Iker could feel the deep tremble in his muscles now, the fear that shook his body in waves. His arms hung stiffly over Iker’s back. 

“I swear to God, I’m just gonna take care of you,” Iker said. The kid’s wet hair brushed his mouth. 

 

Upstairs, Iker turned on the light with his free hand and glanced around for a place to put the kid down. Finally he just set him carefully on the sofa; it wasn’t as if a little water would make that thing any rattier than it already was. 

“Look,” he said. He found himself speaking really low, the way he would to a nervous animal. “I didn’t lock the door or anything, you can leave whenever. I’m just going to go get you some towels and some dry clothes, okay?” 

The kid didn’t say anything. 

When Iker came back with a bunch of towels and some ratty sweatpants and a college t-shirt, he was motionless, exactly where he’d been. Only those huge eyes, almost all pupil, moved, following Iker warily across the room. 

“Uh,” Iker said. He scratched his head awkwardly. “You can -- do you want to change in the bathroom, or --”

The kid just stared for another minute. Then he finally looked away. He put one hand delicately on the pile of towels and patted at it experimentally. 

“Cool,” Iker said, and coughed. “So I -- I’ll just go in the bathroom until you’re done.”

 

He changed out of his own soaked clothes, rubbed a towel over his hair, and sat on the toilet reading an old issue of Men’s Health until he heard the cautious sounds of movement and the rustle of clothing. He peered out.

The kid’s head was sticking awkwardly out of his sweatshirt, which was on -- sideways? upside down? He’d got the sleeves twisted around his whole face, trapping his upper arms, and he had one cuff in his mouth, chewing furiously. At the sound of Iker coming in he glared sourly up at him, like this was somehow _Iker’s_ fault. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Iker said helplessly. “Come on. Here, just --”

It took effort. The kid was somehow making his body simultaneously stiff and floppy, and didn’t seem to know how to use his arms, and the whole time he had this look of fixed, hilarious resentment on his face, which was distracting. When Iker finally managed to get the sweatpants on and yank the shirt down over his skinny ribcage, the kid collapsed against the sofa like he’d been through a hurricane and buried his face in the cushions.

“What the hell is your problem?” Iker said, slightly out of breath. He wiped his brow with his forearm. “Jesus H. Christ.”

“Hrrrrr,” the kid said. It was the first sound he’d made at all. He turned his head on the pillow, staring balefully at Iker out of the corner of one eye.

 

There was EasyMac in the cabinet, so Iker heated up a package and took it over to the couch. He was heading back to the kitchen for a fork, but the kid just tilted the plastic bowl up in both hands and started to slurp at it furiously. Iker watched in fascinated horror. The kid’s face was almost ecstatic, though; his eyes were closed and his lashes, still wet, were thick and dark. You probably couldn’t be too picky about etiquette with a starving, feral street punk anyway. 

The kid licked the entire thing clean of fake cheese. Then he gave Iker this _face._

“Still hungry, huh,” Iker said. The face grew, if possible, even more pathetic. There was a radioactive orange stain on the side of his mouth.

Another EasyMac, a giant bowl of corn flakes and -- scraping the bottom of the barrel, but he hadn’t seemed to mind -- two cans of tuna fish later, the kid finally looked relaxed. He yawned, showing white teeth, and curled against the arm of the sofa, watching Iker with dark, sated eyes.

“You got a name?” Iker asked. 

The kid barely reacted, clearly not even understanding the question. So, okay, no English. Iker pointed to himself. “Iker. Iker. My name. Iker.”

“Hhheekurr,” the kid echoed. His voice had a kind of rusty wheeze under it, like he didn’t use it much.

“Iker,” Iker agreed. He pointed to the kid. “You?”

“Yrruw?” The kid said. He frowned, tried again. “Youww?”

“Name?” Iker tried.

The kid made a rebellious hissing sound. 

“I’m gonna call you Cesc,” Iker said, pointing at the kid, then back at himself. “Iker, Cesc. Iker. Cesc.” Cautiously he reached forward, touching the kid’s sternum. He tensed, but didn’t move away. “Cesc.”

“Cerrsk,” the kid said. He wrinkled his nose. 

“That’s your name,” Iker said. He felt unbelievably stupid. “So, uh. My name is Iker. Your name is Cesc.” 

“Ma nam Cersc,” Cesc said carefully. 

“Good,” Iker said, blinking. “That’s really good.” He cast around for some means of positive reinforcement, but there was nothing except a half-eaten package of mini-donuts. Iker fished one out and tossed it over. Cesc ate it in a single bite.

“Ma nam Cersc,” he said again, perking up instantly. Even his ears seemed to prick forward. “Ma nam. Ma nam Cesc.” He got off the couch -- and his leg seemed okay now, so it must have been the cold -- and then suddenly he was butting his head into Iker’s calves, rubbing against him.

“Cerrrrsccc,” he said. 

“Agh,” Iker said, frozen. “No.” Was this some weird, like, human trafficking behavior? He reached down tentatively to push Cesc’s head away. Then the buzzer went.

It was a horrible buzzer, ancient, with a harsh screech like metal on metal, and Cesc let out a startled yowl and scrabbled under the side table. Before Iker could even react, Sergio’s voice was rumbling tinnily out of the speaker. “Hey, bro, it’s me, it’s Sergio -- you home? Let me up.” 

A low growl issued from under the table. “Oh my God,” Iker said, winding his fingers into his hair. 

The buzzer went again, insistent. “Hey,” Sergio said. “I know you’re here, I can see your car, man. It’s raining. Let me up.” 

“Shit,” Iker muttered. He pushed the button because he didn’t know what else to do, then peered under the table. “Cesc?” The only response was another growl, higher, slightly hysterical.

Sergio seemed to take up all the space in the apartment as soon as he came in, blowing out water dramatically and shaking water off his coat, mostly onto Iker. “It’s so fuckin gross out,” he said.

“Yeah,” Iker said. “Uh. You want a beer or something?”

“Sure,” Sergio said. He flopped down hard onto the couch to wrangle his boots off and let one hand fall to the side table -- and under it, unmistakably, Cesc said, “Rrrrrrrr.”

Sergio froze. He glanced up at Iker, who -- at a loss -- shrugged one shoulder awkwardly. Sergio narrowed his eyes, then leaned down. 

“Nnnnnnooooo,” Cesc said. 

“Holy shit, Iker,” Sergio said.

“Yeah,” Iker said. “I, uh. That’s Cesc.”

“Cesc,” Sergio echoed. His head was still hanging down over the couch cushions, so his hair trailed on the floor. Cesc watched it, mesmerized and suspicious.

“I found him in a box,” Iker tried to explain. When Sergio looked back up, though, he was grinning.

“Shit, bro,” he said. “He’s so cute!” 

“Is he?” Iker said, taken aback. It wasn’t the word he would have used. 

Sergio flopped onto the floor, crouching down and offering his hand. “Hey, little dude,” he said. “It’s okay.” Cesc sniffed his fingertips suspiciously, glancing at Iker for reassurance.

Then Sergio reached lightning-fast under the table, grabbed Cesc’s waist, and dragged him out. Cesc’s shoulders were hunched. His knees skidded on the parquet. 

“Hey, be careful, man,” Iker said, starting forward. “What’s your problem?”

Sergio had gathered Cesc up into his arms, his limbs sprawled all over. It looked absurd. 

“It’s okay, you gotta make ’em come out or they’ll hide forever. Who’s a little cutie, huh?” he crooned. Cesc regarded him disdainfully. 

“Aw, it’s okay,” Sergio said. He cupped Cesc’s cheek in his hand, kind of turning his head, and scratched the corner of his jaw. “Dude, I don’t even like cats that much, but this guy’s adorable.” 

For a moment Iker didn’t get it. “Cats?” he said finally.

“Yeah, my mom’s allergic so we didn’t have them growing up,” Sergio said. Cesc was sniffing inquisitively at his hair now. 

Iker stared at him, closed his eyes for a second, opened them again. No, that was still a person in Sergio’s lap, a thin-limbed pale boy with dark hair and eyes, his knees squashed uncomfortably against Sergio’s chest. 

“You don’t, uh,” Iker said. He cleared his throat. “It doesn’t seem like a weird -- there’s nothing about the, uh, the cat that -- that seems...” He trailed off.

“No,” Sergio said, giving Iker a curious look. He scratched behind Cesc’s ear and Cesc thrummed happily in his throat, bumping his head into Sergio’s big hand. “I mean, I’m not a vet, but he looks okay to me. He’s cute. I like that you got a pet. You don’t have enough hobbies.” 

“Right,” Iker said. “Right.”

 

The thing was, it made perfect sense. Like, of course he spent so much time alone that he’d look at a cat and hallucinate a person. Of course that was how his schizophrenia or whatever would reveal itself. 

Iker wasn’t going to make Cesc go back out in the rain just to put off his own mental breakdown, though. Kid or cat, he’d promised to take care of him. He debated for a long time about whether to make up the couch or to put some towels in a box; in the end he made up the couch, on the theory that either species could sleep there. 

“But what I don’t get is, how are you wearing clothes?” he asked Cesc, helplessly. “Like, you fit in my clothes.” Sort of. The sleeves hung low over his hands, and the pants puddled around his feet, but. Not like they would on a _cat._

“Fiddin cloes,” Cesc agreed. Suddenly he leaned over and dug his head into Iker’s ribs, smearing his cheek and chin over Iker’s hip. He was purring. Totally purring.

“Hheekurr,” he said.

“Yeah, okay,” Iker said uncomfortably.

 

When he woke up for work the next morning, Cesc was curled into the corner of the couch, fast asleep, one bare foot dragging on the ground. Iker looked at him for a minute while he finished tying his tie. Then he shook his shoulder. “Hey.”

Cesc opened one eye. “Ikurr,” he said. His voice was throaty.

“I’m going to work,” Iker said. “You can go if you want, or -- or stay. Whatever.”

“Hrrp,” Cesc said. “Nkay.” He yawned hugely, showing a curl of pink tongue, and closed his eye again. Iker left.

 

He was still in the apartment when Iker came back that night, perched precariously on the radiator with his face squashed to the window. 

“What did you even do all day?” Iker asked, eyeing the room nervously. Other than a toppled pile of magazines, though, it looked like Cesc had barely moved.

“Watch theenz,” Cesc said. He tapped the windowpane. “Small theenz, graay, runz fast. Tayls.” He indicated, with his hands, a bushy tail and big ears. “Yu no. Dese animals?”

“Squirrels?” Iker said.

“Skwrrlz,” Cesc agreed, with relish. “Watch skwrrlz.”

“Sounds great,” Iker said. “Want food?”

“Alwaz want,” Cesc said happily, unfolding himself..

 

After that, he just stayed.

 

The third night Iker was jolted awake by a new weight on the bed. He sat up so abruptly that he smacked his head on the headboard.

“Fuck!” he said, clutching his forehead. “What the hell, Cesc?”

“Slipp here now,” Cesc muttered. His breath was vaguely fishy; they’d made tuna melts for dinner. He pushed his ass into the nook between Iker’s hip and thigh. 

“Uh-uh,” Iker said. “No way.” He tried to shove Cesc off, but Cesc flexed and squirmed and made complaining noises. 

“Why?” he said pathetically.

“Because it’s weird!” Iker said. “Because I need my fucking space. Go back to the couch.” 

“Nope,” Cesc said, resettling himself. “Lyke bein here.”

Iker heaved and Cesc went over with a tumbling thump to the floor. Two seconds later he was back, his chest thrumming against Iker’s ribs. “Lyke _here_ , Ikurr,” he said.

“Ugh, whatever,” Iker said, and fell back asleep.

 

Cesc was mystifying. He liked canned tuna and gnawing on chicken bones, but he also liked spaghetti and scrambled eggs and -- most of all -- mini donuts, and a can of cat food brought home as an experiment led only to a scornful look and Cesc sulking in the corner to eat an entire box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. (Which he couldn’t have done without opposable thumbs, probably?) 

So on the one hand, he could open the fridge. And even if Iker’s landlord just glanced at him and said briefly, “Make sure he uses the box,” Cesc used the bathroom just fine, he flushed and everything. He even brushed his teeth and showered, although sometimes under duress. Objects in the house seemed to react to him like a person; the couch and the bed sagged under his weight, and once when he overbalanced trying to get at a box of Cheez-Its he pulled down the entire curtain rod.

On the _other_ hand, Iker once gave him a roll of kitchen string and he was busy for an entire weekend.

 

It was deeply fucking weird, but -- it wasn’t _bad_ , having Cesc around. It was nice, even. It was nice to get home and have someone happy to see him, even if Cesc liked to show it by putting a hand on his face and sniffing his mouth, which was probably fine coming from a cat, but coming from a teenage boy was peculiar. But still. It was nice to take care of someone.

On the weekends, they got Netflix -- and that was really how Iker had started to think about it, _we_ get Netflix -- and spent whole hours in lazy silence. Cesc liked to curl against him, body warm against Iker’s thigh, his head in Iker’s lap, rumbling softly while Iker toyed with his hair. 

 

He could be a colossal pain in the ass, too.

“No,” Iker said. He pushed at Cesc’s head to discourage him. “Get off, I’m trying to --”

“Yu typinn,” Cesc said, shoving himself more forcefully against Iker’s body. He was warm and heavy. He threw an arm across Iker’s chest, right between Iker and the laptop screen, and pushed his nose into Iker’s armpit. “Alwas typin.”

“What do you even want?” Iker said, trying to fend him off. You couldn’t laugh, it would encourage him. “You’re such a little weirdo.”

“Meeee,” Cesc said. He patted Iker’s chest. “Pay attenshun.”

“I’m gonna send you to the pound,” Iker said, but he carefully set his laptop on the floor and pulled on the velvet curve of Cesc’s ear, scratching his scalp. Cesc huffed out air and flopped down onto him, his head resting on Iker’s chest. The pleasant langorous weight of him was not the worst thing.

 

Most nights he slept in Iker’s bed, one leg thrown over Iker’s, his head nestled under Iker’s chin. It was hard to sleep like that at first, and then it wasn’t.

 

Every now and then Iker woke up hard. It was normal, just morning wood, but though Cesc seemed supremely unbothered -- to the point that sometimes he’d rub obliviously against Iker’s erection in his sleep, which was difficult to deal with -- Iker always felt like he was being an asshole. Not to mention, possibly, a delusional pervert. 

It was just having that warm body weight in the bed, he told himself. It was an involuntary physical thing. When it happened he jerked off quickly, in the bathroom, thinking of very little.

 

He found himself skimming folklore websites at work -- stuff about shared hallucinations, hypnotic delusion, holographs, fairies/aliens/new age shamans who could look like animals. Anything. The suggestions mostly had to do with either true love’s kiss or moving to the woods so the government couldn’t put drugs in your water. When he started typing in his search bar, stuff like “such a thing as were-kitten” or “witches curse cat human” or “think cat is person help fuck” would come up. 

His life now, apparently. His life, and what he was doing.

 

“I’m teaching the cat to talk,” Iker said. Cesc was leaning against his side, chin resting on his shoulder, his chest and belly vibrating madly. Iker tickled him absently under the jaw and he lifted his chin up, face transcendently content.

“Cool,” Sergio said.

“Say ‘Hi, Sergio,’” Iker instructed, flicking Cesc’s ear gently.

“Hyy suerrj-oh,” Cesc said, his eyes still closed. His throat vibrated against Iker’s shoulder. Sergio started.

“Whoa,” he said. A grin spread over his face. “That’s crazy, man.”

“Hye, surrjo,” Cesc said again, slowly opening one eye at a time. He peered around Iker’s shoulder at Sergio. “Hiie.”

“Wave,” Iker told him, demonstrating. “Wave hello.”

“Hyyyeee,” Cesc said, flopping one hand limply. 

“This cat is fuckin nuts, bro,” Sergio said, delighted. “How’d you teach him to do that?”

“I dunno, he just picked it up,” Iker said.

“You’re so _smart,_ little dude,” Sergio said. He picked Cesc up under the arms and dragged him across the couch into his lap. Cesc permitted the indignity, kneading fastidiously at Sergio’s jeans with his knuckles before settling into a crouch there. It looked insane.

“Can you say something else?” Sergio asked, bending over him. “Can you say ‘Iker is a dick?’” He scratched the top of Cesc’s head, stroked down the pale bumps of his spine exposed by his collar. It made Iker feel weird, seeing Sergio’s hands on him like that. 

“Ikurr iz dhkk,” Cesc said. He coughed and tried the word again. “Dikk.” He grinned lazily at Iker, sharing the joke. Sergio threw his head back and laughed like an idiot.

“That’s good, that’s super funny,” Iker said. 

“Haha, he says you’re a dick,” Sergio said happily. “Good boy. Give me a treat for him. We gotta put this on Youtube.”

 

It was a Thursday afternoon when Iker really started to register that a problem had arisen. 

Cesc was -- as he often was when Iker got home -- upside down on the carpet, shirt riding up over his belly and his hips twisted sideways. When he saw Iker he sort of shimmied to the other side, stretching his arms up.

“Hey,” Iker said. 

Cesc made a noise in his throat. His eyes closed slowly and opened again. They were slightly dazed, almost crossed; the pupils were huge.

“Haahn Ikurr,” he said. His hands were over his head, the fingers in a loose relaxed curl.

“Hi-i,” Iker repeated. Cesc’s vocabulary was expanding like crazy, but pronunciation was always a thing.

“Hyyeee,” Cesc echoed dutifully, flopping onto his elbows.

“How was your day?” Iker said. He always asked, and he was never sure why.

“Harraz _yer_ daii,” Cesc said. He nuzzled his face into his wrist. “Chase currtin. Napz. Fined ded bug unner dresser, eat.” Then he rolled onto his back again, showing a slice of flat, pale belly. He looked up at Iker and said, plaintively, “Rumb?”

“Rub?” Iker hazarded. He made a skritching motion with his hand. “Belly rub?”

“Bellenn rumb,” Cesc agreed. At Iker’s touch he closed his eyes and smiled, arching his spine to show his pale, slender neck. His skin was soft under Iker’s fingers.

“Good,” he said, low in his throat. He brushed Iker’s inner wrist idly with his fingertips, his eyes still closed. His lashes were a dark fan. 

“When yu touch me,” he murmured. “Good.”

So this was getting seriously fucked up.

 

“Who’s the twink?” Sergio asked him once. They were at home; Sergio had been harrassing Cesc with a scrap of ribbon and telling some rambling story about the girl he was dating. 

“The who?” Iker said. Then he realized Sergio was looking at the lock screen of his new phone. He’d taken a picture of Cesc to test the camera. It looked the same to him as Cesc always did: skinny kid, weird little awkward face, lying on the sofa and peering curiously into the lens.

“The,” Iker started. He swallowed. There was no way to follow this up -- _You can see him? You see a_ human _?_ \-- that would not sound insane. He held up the phone. “The guy in this picture?” 

“Me,” Cesc said, satisfied.

“Uh, yeah,” Sergio said. “Pretty cute. Young for you, don’t you think? Why don’t you tell me about this shit, bro?”

“Well, he’s,” Iker said. “It’s not, uh, he’s the vet tech. For Cesc.”

“Picshur izz me,” Cesc said. He sat back on his heels. 

“So,” Sergio urged. He waggled his eyebrows. “You guys are fucking?”

“Fukkhen?” Cesc repeated with interest.

“No, we are _not_ ,” Iker said, hoping to God that Cesc didn’t understand the word. “I was just testing the phone. The camera, on the phone.”

“Okay, whatever, sure,” Sergio said. “I’m sure he was just rolling around on your sofa for totally legitimate vet reasons. What’s his name?”

“It’s Cesc.” God dammit. God damn fuck everything. “His name, uh, is Cesc too.” 

“That’s crazy,” Sergio said.

“Crrrrrzey,” Cesc agreed.

“It _is,_ ” Iker said.

 

“So, okay, wait,” Iker said at last. “Are you a cat, or a person? Or what?”

Cesc considered it for a minute, hand pausing at his ear. “Which wan bedder?” he said at last.

“Better?” Iker said. He dug the heel of one hand into his eye socket. “I don’t know. One’s not better than the other. But a -- a cat looks like...a cat is furry, um, and small, and walks on four legs, and a person, a person looks like me.”

“Like you?” Cesc said, cocking his head slightly to the side. He nodded. “Yiz. Like you.”

“But so then why -- when other people look at you, they see -- something else. Like, they see a cat. I’m the only one who sees a person.”

Cesc just kept looking at him, patient and politely interested, as if waiting for the relevancy of this to be revealed to him. 

“Well, but so,” Iker said. “I mean, am I going crazy or something?” 

Cesc blinked slowly. Then he yawned.

“Mebbey,” he said. “Diz bad?”

“Going crazy?” Iker ran a hand through his hair and coughed out a laugh. “That’s bad, yeah.”

Cesc’s brows drew together in concern. He put a hand on Iker’s knee. 

“ _Felz_ bad?” he said. “Youw fell bad?” He put his face right up to Iker’s, his nose poking into the thin skin behind Iker’s ear, with the solicitous professional air of a doctor checking for fractures.

“Get off,” Iker said. He swatted at Cesc’s head, caught the soft curls at the nape of his neck and pulled him off. “That tickles.”

“Felz bad?” Cesc said again. 

“No,” Iker said, absently moving his fingers behind Cesc’s ear. Cesc leaned heavily into the scratch. “Not _bad_ exactly. It’s just -- confusing.”

Cesc rested his head on Iker’s collarbone, gazing peacefully at him. His hair was getting too long; the ends curled around Iker’s fingertips.

“Do you remember where you were before you were in that box?” Iker asked after a little while.

A little shiver ran down Cesc’s body. “ _Bocks,_ ” he said with distaste. “Cold. Wet. Diden like.” He butted his head into Iker’s chin. “Then Ikurr.” He dragged the name out into a husky adoring rumble.

“No, but before that,” Iker said. “Try to think. You must have been somewhere before that.”

Cesc pulled a little face and nuzzled apologetically into Iker’s jaw. “Harrd. Long tiem in bocks. Srry.”

Iker wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. “That’s all right,” he said.

 

“Where you, before bocks?” Cesc asked sleepily, later.

“Before I found you, you mean?”

“Yiz.”

Iker blinked. It was unexpectedly hard to remember. He tried to summon up an image, and mostly pictured a lot of TV. 

“I was here, I guess,” he said at last.

“Heeyre,” Cesc said, his brows knitting up. He glanced around the apartment like he might have missed something. “No one alse here?”

“Not really,” Iker admitted.

Cesc looked at him consideringly for a moment. Then he pressed his mouth to Iker’s, a brief chaste kiss. His lips were closed and soft.

Iker froze. His fingers were still buried in Cesc’s hair. 

When Cesc moved to draw away Iker tugged him back and kissed him again, slower, cupping the curve of his jaw in one palm. His thumb brushed Cesc’s ear. Cesc hummed into his mouth. His heartbeat against Iker’s ribs was slow and steady.

“I’m glad I found you,” Iker said after a long moment. 

“Glad,” Cesc agreed. He tilted his chin up and kissed Iker’s brow. Iker rubbed down his spine in long, smooth strokes, the way he liked. They stayed like that a long time.

 

“Whoa,” Sergio said. “Dude.”

Iker opened his eyes. Drool was stiff on the corner of his mouth and his back ached; the room was at an unfamiliar angle. It took him a moment to realize that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Cesc was still a loose, warm weight in his arms.

“I thought we were going jogging this morning,” Sergio said, staring pointedly at the ceiling. “Obviously a bad time. Warn a guy, huh?”

“Nuh -- yeah,” Iker said vaguely. “What?” He tried to wipe his mouth, but Cesc grumbled and latched onto his arm, snuggling his head into Iker’s throat. 

“At least everybody’s dressed,” Sergio said.

Iker blinked. His brain wasn’t working quickly enough. “Everybody?”

“Is that the vet tech?” Sergio .said, in something he clearly thought was a whisper. “Nice work, bro.” 

Iker looked at Cesc. Then he looked back at Sergio.

“Uh,” he said, lost for an answer.

Cesc made a small, cranky noise; his shoulderblades hollowed and his palms dug into Iker’s chest as he stretched. He blinked blearily up at Sergio.

“Hye Serjo,” he said. “Goway.”

“Cool, all right,” Sergio said, his grin widening. “I’ll, uh, call you later. Nice to meet you, Other Cesc.”

“Yis,” Cesc said. “Layder.” He resettled himself, distributing his not inconsiderable weight more evenly across Iker’s body. The door shut, very quietly. 

“What the hell is even happening,” Iker said weakly.

“Shh Ikurr,” Cesc said drowsily, patting his mouth. “Shh nao. Napz.” He kneaded Iker’s chest, hard, and snuggled back down into it. 

 

“So do you feel different?” Iker asked over breakfast. Cesc didn’t look any different, as far as he could tell, but Iker couldn’t stop staring at him anyway.

Cesc twisted his mouth up pensively, still chewing. “Maybe,” he said. The rumbling vibration was already fading from his voice, but he still had that slightly peculiar diction, a kind of throaty drawl. “I dunno.” 

“Do you still want to stare at squirrels all day?”

Cesc looked at him like he was an idiot. “Uh, _yeah,_ ” he said.

 

Iker gave up on the day and went to bed early, but Cesc lurked in the living room, watching television. He didn’t come in until after Iker had turned out the light, and then he hovered in the bedroom doorway, nervousness evident in the set of his narrow shoulders.

“Hey,” Iker said, sitting up a little.

“Hi,” Cesc said. He coughed, scratched his head.

“You can stay or go,” Iker said carefully. “You don’t have to do anything.”

Cesc didn’t answer, but he didn’t make any move to leave either. 

Iker let one arm fall open. “You can come back here, if you want,” he said.

After a minute Iker felt his tentative weight on the bed; then Cesc was padding up the mattress. He was a little clumsier than he had been, maybe. Then his breath was warm on Iker’s face. He rubbed his head gently against Iker’s jaw. The low rumble of his heartbeat still held the echo of a purr.

“Can stay?” he asked.

Iker let out a breath. “Yeah,” he said. He smiled. “Of course. Stay.”

>   
> _Type 440_ \- The Frog King or Iron Henry. A maiden promises herself to a frog in a spring. The frog comes to the door, the table, the bed. Turns into a prince.

> \--From _The Types Of The Folktale: A Classification And Bibliography_ by Antti Aarne, translated and enlarged by Stith Thompson.


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